


As the Story Goes

by Hazel_Athena



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ensemble Cast, M/M, fic prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2018-11-15 08:12:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11226900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazel_Athena/pseuds/Hazel_Athena
Summary: A collection of prompt fics that I've gotten over on tumblr. Mostly Varaday in nature, but with some Goodnight/Billy showing up as well.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The other day I was having a really boring time at work and put out a call for fic prompts, of which this is the first one to come about. For the record, y'all should always feel free to message me prompts and other ideas, or even just stop by to chat! I love hearing from folks :)
> 
> First up is fontainebleau22's request for Goodnight/Billy slice of life set in the Come Bay at the Moon universe. Hope you like it, friend!

Goodnight gets an odd sense of satisfaction out of preparing a meal that can feed their entire pack. He’s always liked cooking, finds the way he has to concentrate solely on what he’s doing lest he produce something entirely inedible by turning away at the wrong time oddly relaxing, and being able to send the members of their strange little family away with full bellies and pleased taste buds only serves to increase his enjoyment.

It’s not a feeling Billy shares. As much as he may reap the benefits of Goodnight’s talents more than most, he’s got no inclination to lend a hand and join the fun. Given that he’s abjectly terrible in the kitchen, to the point that he’d probably find a way to burn a salad if left unchecked, this is less annoying than it might otherwise be.

That’s not to say, however, that he doesn’t like to be around while Goodnight does his thing. It’s something of an unspoken rule among the pack that Billy’s allowed to hover while Goodnight works, but anyone else is expected to be in and out as quickly as possible to avoid wearing away their welcome. They’re all allowed to help with clean up, but that’s pretty much it.

Billy on the other hand, will shift into the sleek black shape of his wolf, slip under the table without so much as a by your leave, and settle in for however long it takes Goodnight to finish what he’s doing. It’s an odd little ritual between the two partners, one that works for them.

Tonight is one such night, and it sees the two of them alone in the kitchen, practically alone in the entire house but for Sam who’s relaxing up in his room and Emma who’s out on the front porch, curled into a chair with a book and a hot cup of tea. Goodnight’s stood at the sink, idly mixing vegetables into a salad he prays at least some of the younger pack members will eat – Faraday’s liable to wind up with scurvy one of these days thanks to his terrible eating habits, and Teddy’s honestly not far behind – while Billy’s lying tucked into a ball in his favorite spot.

Or so Goodnight had thought anyway. He’s surprised to say the least when he reaches around to scratch at a sudden itch by his hip and the back of his wrist comes in contact with an unexpected cold nose. He looks down. “Getting bored, cher?”

Billy sits back on his haunches and cocks his head to the side, his eyes the same warm, dark brown as a wolf as they are when he’s human. He stares at Goodnight for a moment, before letting out a gruff bark.

Goodnight laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes. I don’t suppose I could interest you in going for a run once I’m done here?”

Perking up at these words, Billy thumps his tail a few times against the polished floor, the movement more than enough to prove he’s amendable to the idea.

“Excellent,” Goodnight says when he sees this. “I won’t be much longer.”

Billy snuffles contentedly and slips back a few steps so he’s not quite as underfoot. Meanwhile Goodnight, with the prospect of a run ahead of him that involves just the two of them – something that they honestly don’t get enough of – returns to the task at hand, mixing various items into the bowl on the counter until he figures he’s got enough of a variety that even Faraday won’t pick out every last thing with nutritional value.

He finishes up as quickly as he’s able, stuffs everything back in its proper place, gives the counter the merest hint of a swipe with a cloth and then turns to find Billy watching him with an amused expression. “Someone else can clean up more thoroughly if the mood strikes them, and if not I’ll do it myself later. Now, come on, I believe I was promised an evening stroll and I aim to get it.”

Stopping only long enough to shove the now completed salad inside the fridge, where admittedly it barely fits thanks to numerous other prepared meals already found within it, Goodnight makes his way over to the back door and unceremoniously hauls it open. They’re heading into fall now, and there’s a crisp feel to the air that drifts into the room once it’s able. It makes his skin tingle, although not unpleasantly, and spurs him on towards his goal of slipping into wolf shape.

His fingers come up to start undoing the buttons of his shirt, and he feels a warm body brush past him as Billy shoves by to get outside. “In a hurry, cher?” He calls.

Billy doesn’t bother answering, just lopes down off the deck and then turns around to stare at Goodnight as if to ask what’s taking so long.

Laughing, Goodnight tosses the remainder of his clothing and lets the shift take over. His front paws land on the rough wood not long after, and he stretches languidly as he adapts to the new shape. Eventually he gives a full body shake, and then bounds down the stairs to join Billy as he heads in the direction of the treeline.

Billy’s kind enough to wait for him, not moving any further until Goodnight’s close enough to brush their shoulders together, and then he’s off again, a playful bounce in his step and every part of his posture shouting ‘chase me, chase me, come play with me’ as he goes.

Goodnight would laugh if he were able, feeling as delighted as he ever does when he sees Billy’s playful side come out, but his wolf form doesn’t allow for that so he has to content himself with darting after his partner and snapping jokingly at his tail when he catches up. He misses of course, Billy’s forever the faster of the two of them, and he’s so nimble Goodnight could never hope to catch him, but he figures he gets his point across when Billy drops back to join him so they can move shoulder to shoulder through the woods, darting along as one entity.

They move like that for an hour or more, finally stopping in a clearing that gives them enough room to lie down in and catch their breath. As he rolls over on his back, gazing up at the night sky with Billy a comforting presence at his side, Goodnight can’t imagine anywhere else he’d rather be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second ficlet goes to Kat2107, who wanted something set in the same universe as a modern day movie star AU that I have blathered at her about far too often and may or may not someday finish.

It’s the faint tremor caused by his cellphone vibrating somewhere within the depths of the bedcovers that wakes him. Vasquez hadn’t meant to leave the thing there, his usual practice is to rest it on the bedside table near his head, but he’d drifted off while paging through a series of text messages the night before, resulting in the phone getting lost among the bedding thanks to his shifting around in his sleep.

The buzzing doesn’t cut out like he’s hoping, meaning he finally lets out an annoyed huff and half-heartedly digs around until he finds them damned thing. He doesn’t bother looking at the name on the screen. There’s only one person who’d have the nerve to call him at, he groans as he spares a quick glance at the clock, 3:17 in the morning.

“What?” He grunts once he’s brought the phone to his ear and thumbed it on. He’s had maybe two hours of sleep so far tonight; he’s in no mood to be pleasant.

There’s a low chuckle on the other end of the line. “C’mon now, darlin’, is that any way to talk to your dearly beloved when he’s called to say goodnight?”

“I think you mean good morning,” Vasquez mutters, and an extremely guilty silence follows this declaration.

“Er,” Joshua says, essentially proving Vasquez’s suspicion that he’s forgotten about the existence of time zones yet again. “Sorry, Vas,” he adds contritely. “Wasn’t thinking.”

Vasquez considers making a snide comment about how he never thinks, but they haven’t yet reached the point where cracks like that don’t run the risk of being taken too seriously. They’re almost there, he thinks, just not quite. This is why, instead of snarling like he wants to, he rolls over onto his back with a sigh. “It’s fine,” he decides. “Did you need something? Everything’s alright back home, isn’t it?”

Now Joshua laughs again. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Emma dragged me out for drinks earlier tonight, and Red was making noises about hitting up the gym tomorrow. Might go, just so long as he agrees to do it at a reasonable hour.”

“Red thinks 5:00am is a reasonable hour.” Vasquez points out. “He is insane.”

Joshua hums agreeably. “Little bit, yeah. What about you? What’d you get up to today?”

“The same as I have every other night – and morning – you’ve asked me that,” Vasquez tells him. “Just work.”

“Ugh, boring. You should quit and come home.” There’s a faint creaking sound in the background, making Vasquez suspect Joshua’s decided to settle into their bed as they talk.

“It’s only for a few more weeks, querido,” he points out, “and if I back out of a project part way through, Sam may very well kill me.”

“Sam would never kill you, he likes you too much. It’s me he’d kill.” A fact that, while quite possibly true, Joshua sounds remarkably blasé about.

Suddenly Vasquez hears a background noise that comes from neither man nor furniture, and he rolls his eyes heavenward when he figures out what it must be. “You’ve let the dog into the bed again, haven’t you?” After all, Joshua’s beloved mutt has a very distinctive whine.

“She was lonely!” Joshua protests, caught out and not the least bit ashamed of it.

“I see.” Vasquez aims for a scolding tone, knowing full well he only manages to sound fond.

There’s silence on the other end of the phone for a moment, and then, “I was lonely too.”

Not surprised that’s the root of the problem, but somewhat surprised Joshua’s willing to admit it, Vasquez feels a burst of warmth starting in the pit of his stomach and slowly unfurling outwards. “I’ll be hone soon, and then you can wake me up at absurd hours in the morning in person instead of over the phone.”

“I forgot how late it was where you are,” Joshua protests.

“A four time difference has pushed it past late and into early, guero,” Vasquez replies. “I have to be up in less than three hours.”

“Right,” Joshua says his voice softening. “I should probably let you go then.”

It’s on the tip of Vasquez’s tongue to say yes, he should do that, until something makes him pause. He’s awake to be sure, probably likely to stay that way for a while, and he doesn’t much relish the thought of lying here in the dark with nothing to think about aside from the fact that everyone he cares about is on the other side of the continent. “I think,” he says slowly, “that you should talk to me instead.”

Joshua’s quiet for a several moments, but when he speaks again there’s a pleased note in his voice that tells Vasquez he’s said the right thing. “Oh I should, should I? Alright, what am I to talk to you about?”

Rolling over onto his side, Vasquez burrows deeper into the blankets and wedges his phone into the space between his cheek and shoulder. “I don’t know, you’ve always been better at meaningless small talk than me.”

“Meaningless small talk?” Joshua echoes, injecting a scandalized element into his tone that Vasquez doesn’t need to see him to know is entirely fake. “Now that hurts.”

“Yes, no doubt.” Vasquez considers his options. The odds are good that no matter what Joshua decides to tell him, the words will likely lull him back to sleep sooner rather than later. “Tell me whatever you like, I’m not picky.”

“Oh the things I could say to that,” Joshua laughs, “but alright, in light of your willingness to be receptive to any stories that come to mind, you’ve got hear about this new low carb … thing Red’s angling to get me to try. For the record, it both looks and smells like death. I can only imagine what it actually tastes like.”

“Based on the description, I’m guessing death,” Vasquez says helpfully, and Joshua laughs.

“Yeah, probably. I’m all for eating healthy, but a man’s got to have limits, you know?” He pauses for a moment, no doubt to let his thoughts regroup. “But anyway, that’s not the only new thing …”

Vasquez smiles as he settles in to let a voice from thousands of miles away send him to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fic for roadgoesever-on-and-on who wanted Varaday Red-sitting and/or Red Varaday-sitting. I went with option a), although I agree b) is the more believable. Hope you enjoy it and thanks for the prompt!

As soon as the seven start travelling together on a permanent basis, helping out every little frontier town in need of their services and getting into all kinds of trouble along the way, Sam institutes a policy wherein anyone who gets hurt in the line of duty (as well as one or two occasions _not_ in the line of duty) is not to be left alone while they convalesce. Typically the whole crew will stand pat until anyone who's hurt is up and ready to go again, and that's just how it is.

Sometimes, however, they run into a situation that's time sensitive and requires attention immediately - meaning that at least some people have to continue on with the current job. At times like these the crew gets split in half with one or two healthy men remaining behind with whoever's hurt.

That happens to be the case today. They've been hired on by a blink-and-you'll-miss-it sized town in the middle of nowhere New Mexico where the locals have been having serious trouble with a band of raiders who've set up camp on the edge of their land for the express purpose of causing trouble.

An earlier run in with the raiders had seen most of them either dead or in custody, with a handful of remaining strays heading for the hills the moment they'd realized they were no match for the seven men who'd unexpectedly come calling. Not wanting to give these few stragglers a chance to regroup and come back in force, Sam's determined to deal with them now.

The problem with this is that one of the raiders had gotten off a lucky shot where Red Harvest was concerned. The damned fool hadn't actually managed to hit their youngest member, but he'd caused him to take a less than perfectly timed leap from the building he'd been perched atop and the resulting fall had ended with at least two cracked ribs and a bump on the head that was far from pretty.

Once he's determined that Red's injuries, while both painful and annoying, aren't life threatening, Sam decides that two men will be left to watch him, while the remaining four head off to clear the rest of the raiders out. In the end, he leaves Vasquez and Faraday behind.

"But why us?" Vasquez wants to know. It's not the first time he's asked. The seven had been offered up the empty house of a farming couple who'd been among those to abandon their town in light of the raiders' activities, and the former outlaw is up and prowling around the confines of the kitchen, looking for all the world like a caged animal. "We are excellent shots and terrible nursemaids. Sam would have been better off leaving Horne and Robicheaux behind."

"Sam wanted Horne to do the trackin' with Red down for the count, and he was plannin' to have Goody do a little long range shootin' if the opportunity presented itself. You know this, the man explained himself half a dozen times before he headed out." Not bothering to look up from what he's doing, Faraday carefully adds another card to the castle he's been studiously constructing since he'd last checked to see that Red was still sound asleep in the next room.

Vasquez snorts harshly and resumes his pacing, the set up of the small space such that he brushes up against Faraday with each pass he makes. "None of that changes how we are the worst people to leave caring for an invalid. Neither of us has the skills or the necessary patience to be of much use. We're better off helping to deal with the men who hurt him."

Faraday hums absently as he considers where to place his next card. Deciding he's going to add a whole new wing to his creation he moves to set it in a foundation spot. "From where I'm sittin', the only one lackin' patience here is you, Vas. Quit stompin' around like a bear with a burr in his backside and come sit down. I get dizzy every time I stop to look at you."

There's a moment of weighted silence, so much so that Faraday feels a faint sense of alarm and tears his gaze away from his work to see what Vasquez is doing. The second their eyes meet, the other man stamps down heavily with one booted foot, the force such that it sends the floorboards rattling and Faraday's cards tumbling down in a mess as the table shakes as a result.

"Nice," Faraday grunts, probably less annoyed by this little fit of pique than he should be. "You feel any better?"

Unexpectedly, Vasquez's shoulders slump, all of the fight leaving him almost as quickly as it'd shown up. "No," he mumbles, "not really."

Sensing there's more to Vasquez's mood than being left behind while their companions got to have all the fun, Faraday sighs and crooks a finger at him. "C'mere, hombre, you can tell me what's wrong while you help me clean up the mess you've just made."

"None of them even hit the floor," Vasquez points out, but he shifts over to help Faraday sweep the scattered cards into a manageable pile and then stays where he is once that's done.

Faraday eyes the way he's drumming his fingers against his hip, chewing on the corner of his mouth at the same time, and sighs again. He recognizes the signs that Vasquez is bothered by something. Lord knows they've spent enough time in each other's company to get good at reading one another.

Reaching out he curls the fingers of one hand loosely around Vasquez's wrist, tugging until the other man starts moving. "I distinctly remembering sayin' you could tell me what's wrong," he says, somewhat relieved when Vasquez lets himself be dragged over to his side.

Not releasing his grip on Vasquez's wrist, Faraday shoves his chair back a bit from the table, just enough to make space for two people rather than one. "You wanna sit?" He asks.

It's something of an odd request coming from him. While what the two of them get up to together is an open secret among their friends, they tend to leave the public displays of affection to Goodnight and Billy, who are remarkably sappy for a pair who've killed dozens of men between them. 

Still, that's not to say Faraday and Vasquez never curl up together every now and again, and with Red safely asleep in his room while the others are no doubt hours away, this seems like as good a time as any. A fact that Vasquez must agree with him on because he drops into Faraday's lap more quickly than anticipated.

"Gonna tell me what's botherin' you now?" Faraday asks as Vasquez's weight settles over his thighs. For such a rangy brute, the man's heavier than expected. "Or am I goin' to have to drag it out of you?"

Vasquez rolls his eyes, but instead of saying something about how Faraday'll never get anything out of him he doesn't want to share, he leans forward until their foreheads are touching and lets out a distinctly unhappy noise. "It was my fault," he says finally, his voice little more than a murmur.

"Hmm?" Faraday asks. "What was? Red?"

He can feel it as Vasquez nods. "Sí, I had the man who shot at him covered, but he slipped by me when more of his friends arrived. If I'd been quicker, he'd have been dead before he could take that shot."

Well that explained the problem, even if it was just patently ridiculous. "Are you tellin' me you think you didn't do enough to help while you were outnumbered, what, three, four, maybe five to one? Vas, don't be so fuckin' stupid."

"It is not _stupid_ , guero. It is fact." Vasquez pulls back enough so Faraday can see his face, which certainly isn't a happy one at the moment. "That raider was my responsibility, and Red got hurt because of me."

"No, Red got hurt because he fell off a roof, and he fell off a roof because some jackass took a potshot at him. A jackass who, if I recall correctly, you then dealt with awful fast."

"Too little, too late," Vasquez growls, and Faraday feels a sudden urge to smack him. He gets where this is coming from, but it's hardly going to do anyone any good.

"That's enough of this," he decides. "You can bring it up with Red if you like later, though I'm sure he's just goin' to stare at you the way he does when he thinks someone's bein' an idiot, but until then, no more sulking." Faraday flashes his best wolfish grin and curves his hands around Vasquez's hips, his intention plain. "If you need a distraction that bad, I'm happy to provide."

Rolling his eyes so hard Faraday's half surprised they don't fall right out of his head, Vasquez leans back to give Faraday his most disapproving glare. "Eres terrible, guero."

"Thank you," Faraday says not at all bothered, "that means a lot. Now come here."

Despite his protests, Vasquez lets himself be drawn into the kiss. Indeed, he's done a grand total of nothing to extricate himself when several minutes have passed, and an annoyed voice says, "That chair will only hold you both for so long."

They break apart to find Red leaning against the open doorway of his room, doing an impressive job of making his posture appear casual and not at all like he needs the wooden frame to support himself. 

Faraday finds his voice first. "You're supposed to be sleeping," he says accusatorially. _And now you're out here putting a crimp in my evening plans_ , he doesn't say aloud, but figures is obvious anyway. 

"I was. Now I'm not. Is there food?" Red blinks once and then comes further into the room, his movements less graceful than normal but still impressive considering the state of his injuries.

"Sí, hermano." Vasquez speaks up before Faraday has a chance, and then to make matters worse moves to stand up. "You sit, and we'll get you something."

Faraday thinks about protesting, if only just for show, but decides against it. Instead, he gets out of his seat as well, offering it up to Red with a wave of his hand. "Like the man said, you sit, and we'll give you a hand."

The unspoken gratitude on Red's face more than makes up for any interruptions on his part.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the drabble prompt list I reblogged on tumblr - for the anon who suggested "You're getting a vasectomy. That's final." congrats on getting me to write a gender swap au for the first time in my life :P

"You're getting a vasectomy."

The first time Alejandra tells him this, she's hunched over the toilet in their lone bathroom, throwing up what appears to be everything she's eaten for the past week. At this point, the fact that her sides have stopped heaving long enough to let her choke out that measly four word sentence is frankly impressive.

Deciding it's not likely to make her any angrier with him, and it might even help, Faraday pulls her hair back, gathering the thick, glossy curls in his hands and safely ensuring they’re not in the way. "Pretty sure this was as much your idea as it was mine," he points out because even when he knows he's liable to suffer for it, he's still a risk taker at heart.

Any response Alejandra might make gets cut off as she hunches over and starts retching again.

*****

"You're getting a vasectomy."

Only half awake, Faraday yawns as he continues trudging down the empty sidewalk. "I thought I was getting oranges," he mutters into his phone.

Silence, both damning and annoyed, drifts across from the other end of the line until Alejandra snorts. "Semantics," she snaps. "I hate oranges."

"You told me you wanted some," he protests, and if he maybe comes off a little harsh, screw it. It's god only knows how many hours past midnight, and he's not wandering around in search of a twenty four hour market because _he's_ the one who woke up desperately in need of citrus.

"I _do_ want some," Alejandra stresses, "but I also hate them. You're the one who likes the things, not me. Clearly this child has your taste buds."

"Could be," he agrees. He's long since learned not argue with her when she's in this kind of mood, and he’d taken that lesson to heart way before pregnancy hormones had become a factor. "How many did you want then?"

She pauses, clearly thinking it over. "Better get as many as you can find."

*****

"You're getting a vasectomy."

Unfazed, Faraday doesn't miss a beat, just continues rubbing her back where she's indicated the worst of the ache is. "How many times are you going to tell me that before this is through?"

He dodges the sharp elbow she aims at his solar plexus with little difficulty, grateful for the way her mobility is somewhat hampered by her size these days. "Not nice, darlin'," he scolds, "I'm trying to make you feel better."

"Hah," she scoffs. "Nothing will make me feel any better. Everything hurts, I have to pee all the time, none of my clothes fit, the list goes on! I ate bran muffins dipped in habanero sauce yesterday!"

"Hey, you're not the only person who had to suffer through that one," Faraday reminds her. "You might've done it, but I had to watch it happen."

"Joshua."

Recognizing the specific hitch in her voice that signals a potential meltdown, Faraday knows it's time to lay off the teasing. Instead, he leans forward to wrap his arms around her, nosing gently at the side of her face. "S'alright, darlin'," he murmurs, "it's going to be worth it in the end."

"It'd better be," she mutters darkly, flipping from sad to annoyed in the span of a moment. She lets him hold her for a few minutes longer before slapping half-heartedly at his arm. "Get back to work."

Safely where she can't see him, he grins. "Yes, ma'am."

*****

"You're getting a vasectomy."

Or at least that's what Faraday thinks she says. Precedent suggests it'll be something along those lines, it's just hard to tell with the way she's currently weeping over a bunch of baby ... somethings (meerkats maybe?) on tv.

"What the hell are you watching?"

She flaps a hand distressingly at the screen, like that's somehow going to clarify what her problem is. "Less than half of them will survive to adulthood," she whimpers, which - not helpful.

Sighing, Faraday reaches out to try and wrestle the remote out of her hand. "Alright. No more discovery channel documentaries for you today."

*****

"You're getting a vasectomy. That's final."

Faraday pushes sweaty hair away from Alejandra’s face, nodding when she bares her teeth at him in a feral snarl, while the nearby nurse babbles something about focusing on her breathing. "That seems fair," he decides, wincing when her hand tightens painfully around his. "What're the odds you'll let up on that a bit if I ask nicely?"

In answer, she squeezes even harder.

*****

"Maybe I'll take it back."

"Hmm?" His attention firmly located on the tiny, fuzzy blanket wrapped bundle in her arms, he tears his gaze away and looks over at her. "Sorry, what was that?"

Smiling tiredly, Alejandra runs a fingertip along their daughter's downy soft cheek. "Her. She was a good decision. Maybe another would be too."

"Huh." Shifting around slightly, Faraday positions himself so that he can hook his chin over her shoulder for a better look. "She's awful cute, I'll give you that. Must be because she takes after her mama."

"She has your eyes."

That much is true, Faraday acknowledges. He looks down and the same green eyes he sees every time he looks in the mirror stare sleepily up at him. Everything else is all Alejandra though, right down to the way she's already looking mildly exasperated with him. He has a sudden inexplicable urge to stick his tongue out at her.

"You're sure you want to go with Maria?" He asks after a few minutes have passed, and Alejandra makes an affirmative noise.

"Yes, and I just spent nine months and seventeen hours bringing her into the world, so you don't get to say anything." Alejandra twists around to lock eyes with him. "Maria."

Faraday can't quite keep from rolling his eyes. "And when she grows up and asks why we named her that?” He clears his throat and pitches his voice in a half-mocking cadence, “'Well, see honey, mom and dad had this really kind of awful inside joke from when they first met ...'?"

Alejandra's eyes narrow. " _Maria_."

Faraday sighs, but nevertheless gives in just like she’s expecting him to. "Alright, darlin'. Maria it is."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For dixiethumbelina and allegradreams, who both suggested "Hey, hey, calm down. They can't hurt you anymore." In my head this is probably from the LMTTG 'verse, but could stand alone.

"Hey, hey, calm down. They can't hurt you anymore." Vasquez hears the words, understands what they mean, and knows he can trust the voice that's uttering them. Unfortunately, none of these details help him get his breathing under control or relax the frantic pounding of his heart. He can feel it thudding painfully in his chest, as if it's trying to burst right out of his ribcage.

Abruptly he feels something tug at him, pulling him forcibly from the tangled mess of blankets he's wrapped in and forcing him into a sitting position. He lashes out with one hand, or tries to rather - the constricting blankets do him no favours in this endeavour - and the same voice comes back, more urgently this time.

"Vas, wake up! You're fuckin' dreamin', I promise. There's nobody here but us."

Still not heeding the voice, Vasquez tries to scramble free of the blankets, only to find himself caught in a vice like grip that holds him in place. It's nothing painful, doesn't even come close to hurting, but it's absolutely, without a doubt going to prevent him from moving away like he wants to.

"It's alright, sweetheart. You're fine, I swear." The words are murmured into the shell of his ear as hands come up to run soothingly over his back, up and down in long sweeping motions that are directly opposite the desperate energy ramping throughout his body. Slowly, he starts to remember where he is. Where he is and, also, who he's with.

"Joshua?" He croaks his voice hoarse.

"Right first time," the man in question replies. Vasquez feels it as cool lips press against his temple. “I know you don’t like talkin’ about this, but it might be the nightmares wouldn’t happen so often if you discussed ‘em a little.”

Vasquez makes a weak attempt at shifting away, but it’s a token protest at best and he sags back into Joshua’s comforting bulk before long. “Because you are always so keen on talking when things plague your dreams,” he mutters. “Talk is cheap, guero.”

Joshua doesn’t reply immediately, choosing instead to offer reassurance through touch as opposed to by any other means, but when he speaks again his voice is serious. “Not always, it ain’t. Talkin’ helped me after Rose Creek.”

“What do you mean?” Vasquez wishes suddenly that they weren’t laying here in the dark. There’s something in Joshua’s tone that makes him want to be able to see his face. “You did not talk about what happened there.”

An almost guilty silence fills the room. “Maybe not with you.” Joshua says finally.

That makes no sense whatsoever, but all Joshua does when Vasquez says as much is sigh. “I talked to Goody,” he admits in a rush, spurred on by Vasquez prodding him once or twice in the chest, his finger unerringly finding one of the many bullet scars located therein. “Well, technically I went to apologize to him for bein’ so short tempered before I really knew what kind of demons he’d faced. We wound up havin’ quite the conversation once I was done though. It – it helped, havin’ someone to relate to.”

Vasquez licks dry lips in an effort to buy himself some time as he considers how best to respond. In the end he settles on just the simple truth. “You never told me that before.”

“Didn’t know how,” comes the reply, “and if I’m honest, I didn’t much feel like it. You know me,” Faraday adds, rushed, like he’s afraid Vasquez will take offence at his words if he doesn’t offer up an explanation quickly enough. “I’m not always good about bein’ open with … things.”

In spite of the vestiges of the nightmare that still have him in their grasp, Vasquez snorts. “That is one way of putting it,” he agrees. “But you say sharing these problems with Goodnight helped, make you feel better?”

“Yeah,” Joshua says softly. “I mean, it sure as shit didn’t entirely fix it entirely, but I guess you could say it made it more bearable.”

“I …” Vasquez starts and stops, trailing off uncertainly. He clears his throat. “It has been a very long time since I had someone to do that with.”

Joshua’s hold on him tightens noticeably, although not unpleasantly. “That was in the past, idiot. Focus on the here and now.”

Vasquez snorts again. Trust Joshua to make calling someone an idiot sound like the ultimate endearment. Deciding he needs to think about what to say to that, he stalls for time by ducking his head and burrowing further into the other man’s warmth, knowing full well he’ll have to speak up sooner or later. One thing most people fail to realize about Joshua is that he’s distressingly good at waiting people out when he wants something. He’s not going to open his mouth until after Vasquez does.

“Do I have to do it right now?” Vasquez asks once he’s determined that the silence has stretched on long enough.

“You don’t _have_ to do anything,” Joshua informs him. “All I’m sayin’ is that if you _want_ to do so, at a time of your choosing, then, well, maybe I might trouble myself to listen. It’ll be a pretty big hardship, of course,” he continues on airily, not so much as flinching when Vasquez smacks him on the arm, “but I imagine I can solider through.”

Vasquez smacks him a second time for good measure, but all this achieves is to make him laugh. “Cabrón,” Vasquez mutters.

“Same to you,” Joshua replies unconcerned. “However, in answer to your earlier question, no, you don’t have to say jack shit now. Or ever if you don’t want to. I’m just sayin’ I’ll listen if you change your mind.”

Vasquez feels his chest tighten in the face of such obvious affection – trust Joshua to only let it out behind closed doors and in the pitch black of night – and he buries his face in the juncture between his partner’s neck and shoulder in lieu of answering. Maybe he’ll take Joshua up on his offer tomorrow. For now he’s content to stay where he is.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decoy-Ocelot made two requests, the first one is here with “You can’t banish me! This is my bed too!" which got a little angstier than expected. I promise the second one will be fluffier!

“Ah ah ah, no, you do not get to stay in here tonight.” Vasquez shakes an admonishing finger at him, and Faraday freezes where he was just about to pull back the covers and crawl underneath them.

“The fuck are you on about now?” He feels the opening strains of a headache taking up space in his temples, the sharp spike no doubt a result of the tension he’s been carrying all evening thanks to the snit Vasquez has been walking around in for some unfathomable reason. “I don’t know what’s crawled up your ass and died tonight, Vas, but I’m damn tired of it and I’m going to bed.”

“Not in here you’re not,” Vasquez disagrees. He points the finger he’d previously been shaking under Faraday’s chin in the direction of their bedroom doorway. “You are sleeping out there.”

Faraday gapes at him. “What in hell’s name?” He starts, his temper rising with each word. “You can’t banish me! This is my bed too! You don’t get to kick me out just because you’re in a mood. Especially when I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Haven’t done anything -?” Vasquez’s voice cuts off sharply as his eyes narrow and his face darkens in obvious anger. He once again jabs his hand at the door, making it clear that he wants Faraday through it and he wants him through it _now_. “Joshua, I am _not_ sleeping with you tonight. Go away!”

“Excuse you?” Faraday demands. “Why’s it gotta be me who’s exiled from the room? You’re the one who’s all pissed off over who the fuck knows what, you go sleep on the damned couch!”

“Idiota, it is not my fault that you are too stupid to even realize when you screw up. I’m not sleeping on the couch, you are!”

Throwing his hands up in the air, hoping the motion makes his agitation plain, Faraday decides enough is enough. He’s exhausted from more than just dealing with Vasquez’s bad mood since he’s been home, and he’s now at the point where the place he gets to sleep is less important than the actual activity itself. “Fine,” he declares, “but I want you to know I’m going not because I think I deserve to, but because I don’t much want to be sleeping with you tonight either. Not with this attitude you’ve got going on anyway.”

Vasquez’s entire posture tightens in a way that indicates he’s giving serious consideration to hurling the nearest available object at Faraday’s head, but Faraday ignores this in favour of stomping out of the room, slamming the door hard enough behind him that it rattles its hinges.

He keeps on stomping right up until he reaches the living room and the couch that is apparently his home for the night. He’s caught a nap on it on more than one occasion, a notion that he’s never had a problem with before now. Tonight, however, is a whole different ballgame, and Faraday has to admit that the prospect of several hours spent on a piece of furniture that is frankly too small for him to properly stretch out on does not sit well with him.

Still, his only other option is to go back to the bedroom and get into round who knows how many of arguing with his recalcitrant partner tonight. Vasquez had come through the front door looking for a fight earlier this evening, and he hasn’t let up one bit since he’d arrived home. Faraday may have no idea what’s gotten into him, but he knows he’s tired enough to not want to have to try and deal with it again until morning.

That settled, he lies down on the couch and does his best to get comfortable. It’s early enough in the fall season that the hand knitted afghan thrown over the back of the furniture will be more than enough to keep him warm and the throw pillow he rests his head on is at least passably functional, but none of this helps him to calm down.

He loses track of how long he lies there, tossing and turning, at least insofar as the confines of the couch will let him, but the one conclusion he comes to is that he’s not getting any sleep tonight if he tries to do it out here. His mind made up, he gets back up off the couch and makes a beeline for the bedroom. If Vasquez has a problem with it he can just suck it up and deal as far as Faraday’s concerned.

Vasquez has apparently had no more success in falling asleep than Faraday has because he shoots up in bed as soon as the door gets shoved open.

“I’m coming in,” Faraday snaps before the other man can get a word in edgewise. “If you’re going to be that up in arms about it then _you_ can leave. Move over.”

Vasquez very pointedly does not move over, but Faraday decides he’s not going to let that stop him. Habit seems to have seen the other man keeping to his usual side of the bed even without Faraday taking up space next to him, so it’s easy enough to slip under the covers and reclaim his preferred spot. Rolling onto his side, he glares at the wall. “Night, jackass.”

Given the way the evening has gone so far, the pillow that smack into his head mere seconds after he’s uttered this declaration is, in hindsight, to be expected. “Cabrón,” Vasquez hisses, and while Faraday lays there sputtering, he thwacks him again. “You are the jackass, not me.”

“The hell I am,” Faraday barks, sitting up and reaching out just in time to grab a hold of the pillow before Vasquez can get in a third shot. He tugs the offending article towards himself, reasonably certain he hears fabric tear in the process, and successfully yanks it from Vasquez’s hands. “Gimme that, would you? Fuck, what in hell’s name has gotten into you tonight?”

He half thinks he hears Vasquez start grinding his teeth, and he sighs. Letting the pillow fall from his grasp, he rakes a hand through his hair. “You might want to cover your eyes.” At Vasquez’s inquiring noise, he adds, “I’m turning on a light. We need to talk about this if we’re ever going to get any sleep, and I’d prefer to be able to see you while that happens.”

Flicking the light on takes the work of a moment, and when Faraday turns around he finds Vasquez rumpled and agitated looking as he blinks his eyes rapidly to combat the sudden glare. “Darlin’,” Faraday says then, his own irritation fading in the face of Vasquez’s obvious distress. “What’s wrong?”

“You know what,” Vasquez insists, the same way he has been all night.

Faraday, likewise in the same way _he_ has been all night, shakes his head in adamant denial. “No, I honestly don’t, and trust me; I’ve been trying to figure it out. I didn’t forget any important dates, I didn’t forget to pay any bills or miss some chore or other you asked me to do, and I didn’t break anything. For the record, I’m not saying my doing any of that would justify the way you’ve been snarling tonight, but at least it’d explain it. Right now you’re acting like, like I fucking cheated on you or something equally insane.”

“Hmmph, might as well have,” Vasquez mutters, which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Faraday demands.

Damningly, Vasquez crosses his arms over his chest and refuses to look him in the eye and choosing to talk to the bedding instead. “You were with Emma and Matthew today.”

Faraday blinks, thrown off guard. “So? You knew I was meeting them for lunch. I told you that when I left this morning.”

“Not just them,” Vasquez says. “Clara was there too.”

“I – yeah, she was,” Faraday says slowly. He’s still confused, but he has a sneaking suspicion he knows where this is going now. Vasquez hates Clara, largely because she thinks Faraday shouldn’t be with him and should be with somebody else, most notably her. “Emma invited her without telling me. I don’t recall mentioning that.”

“You didn’t.” Vasquez tells him. “I saw you while I was out running errands. I figured you’d tell me why she was there when you got home, but you only mentioned Emma and Matthew.”

“Because I didn’t think it was anything to write home about,” Faraday explains. “Jesus fuck. What’d you do? Figure that meant I was out having a clandestine affair in the middle of the day with the Cullens along for the ride? _Vas_!”

Vasquez flails a little. “I didn’t – not really? I just kept waiting for you to say something about it, and then you said nothing.”

“And the longer that went on, the snappier you got, until we were both barking at each other for no reason.” Faraday gets what’s happened now, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. “Vas, that’s stupid shit, and you know it. It’s also unfair as fuck too.”

“I know, I know,” Vasquez’s agitated hand flapping picks up another notch, although at least he no longer sounds like he’s ready to bodily launch Faraday out of their apartment for no reason. “Lo siento, guero. I knew it was stupid when it was happening, but I couldn’t stop myself.”

Faraday leans back against the headboard of their bed, more mollified than he’d expected at Vasquez’s simple admission that he’d been out of line. “You could’ve just said something,” he grumbles. “It’s not like I wouldn’t choose you over that woman any day of the week. You know that.”

“Sí,” Vasquez admits quietly. “I do.”

“Well … good.” Faraday says lamely. Uncrossing his arms so he can start sliding into a more vertical position, he pauses in the act of reaching over to turn the light off. “I suppose I should ask if this means I’m allowed to sleep in my own bed or not now that we’ve cleared the air.”

Vasquez’s face goes pinched, and he ducks his eyes again. “You’re fine,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck as his cheeks flush. “I can go if you like.”

Faraday feels an inexplicably rush of fondness flow through him at this offer. “Stay where you are, hombre,” he says firmly. “I’ll find a way for you to make this up to me tomorrow, and until then there’s no sense in making you suffer. All sleeping on that couch is going to get you is a fucked up back.”

Vasquez gives him a simple nod with the hint of a smile playing around his lips, and once the light is out curls up against Faraday in his usual spot.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was instructed to write a fic where Vasquez actually dies and maybe becomes a spirit. That ... did not happen. /o\

The rope is coarse, thick and rough, and would no doubt start to chafe if he was going to be able to feel it for long. It's the same kind that's binding his hands together, a necessity after he'd put up too much of a fight and almost gotten free of his jailers, and it settles over his neck with a menacing intent, it's sole purpose to shift him from this life to the next.

A hand comes up to pull at it, smacking him none to gently when he continues struggling, refusing to give in even in this, his last few moments on earth. He has no intention of going quietly into the night, and they should know that from his reputation.

The hand connects yet again, this time landing a blow to his stomach that would see him doubling over to wretch if a second pair didn't come up to hold him in place. "If he falls now it'll make a mess of things," a voice says, as if that should give him comfort, should do anything but make him laugh hysterically at the notion that he might somehow ruin his own hanging.

Vasquez glares as the man who'd been speaking comes into view. It's the sheriff, apparently here to see that the execution of one of the area's more fabled outlaws goes off without a hitch. "Come to gloat?" He asks, surprised when the lawman shakes his head slowly.

"Contrary to what you may believe, I take no pleasure in this." The sheriff's voice is slightly higher in pitch than one would expect from a man his size. That and his words put Vasquez in mind of old Jack Horne, which just results in a pang in his gut at the thought of his friend, of all of them - the people who'd accepted him as one of their own, and who now he'd never see again.

He struggles some more, still fighting the bonds even though the steadily encroaching terror in the back of his mind tells him it's futile.

"You brought this on yourself," the sheriff says while he watches, and Vasquez scoffs.

He says nothing further, however. What can he? Confession may be good for the soul, but here telling the truth - that he'd killed a man who needed killing, but still done it - wouldn't set him free.

"Any last words?" The sheriff asks. He doesn't much seem like he cares about the answer, but he asks it nevertheless.

Rather than provide one, Vasquez spits in his face. It's a weak protest as far as defiance goes, but it's all he has left. His people don't know where he is, have no idea the trouble he's landed in, and there won't be some magic last minute rescue to get him out of this.

His expression remaining implacable, the sheriff wipes the saliva off his cheek with the back of one hand, never taking his eyes off of Vasquez. Sighing, he keeps the same hand raised in the air, making a signal with two of his fingers.

"Do it," he says softly, and Vasquez feels the noose tighten to the point of strangulation as someone pulls the knot down. Measured footsteps ring out behind him, no doubt the hangman out to assume his position, and he jerks his head up, not wanting the last thing he ever sees to be the sheriff's flat stare.

That's when all hell breaks loose.

The town gallows are, unusually so, not a public location. Instead they're tucked away in back of the sheriff's station, and prisoners are quietly led outside whenever it's their turn to meet their maker. The only audience is those who are involved in the proceedings, which aside from Vasquez himself are the sheriff, the hangman, and the three guards who'd unceremoniously dragged him from his cell.

There's a thudding sound, followed by a high pitched scream, and when Vasquez turns to look as best he's able, he finds that the hangman sprawled on the ground not far from the trapdoor hatch, clutching at his mangled thigh. The arrow protruding from the man's flesh is heavy and vicious looking, fletched with a familiar pattern of feathers.

Barking commands, the sheriff gestures for his men to close in, and Vasquez sees another man fall, this one accompanied by the explosive shot of a gun from somewhere up high. It sends the remaining guards scattering, leaving their two wounded fellows where they fell as they dash for cover.

More shots go off as the sheriff and the guards flee. These ones don't hit anyone, a fact that Vasquez strongly suspects to be deliberate. Instead they fall just behind each running man's feet, herding them off and away from the gallows, the two wounded men shuffling along after as best they can.

Unsure of what to do, Vasquez tries to use his bound hands to get the noose off, desperately wanting to be free of it before the sheriff and his deputies can regroup. It's no use though, the rope's been tightened too far, and he can't get his hands back enough to undo it.

That doesn't stop him from trying, of course, but his fingers are straining uselessly when he hears someone come up behind him, a heavy tread signalling that his time might yet be up anyway.

Or not. Still struggling, Vasquez moves to yank himself away when new hands land on him, but he freezes at the sound of a familiar voice.

"Easy, Vas, easy," Joshua says, and Vasquez doesn't think he's ever been so relieved to hear the man speak. Not even when he'd done the impossible and woken up in the Rose Creek infirmary demanding to know what had happened and if he could have his damn horse back. "Ale, hold still. We've got you."

The noose thankfully, blessedly loosens as Joshua pulls it back, slipping it over Vasquez's head and flinging it backwards to dangle harmlessly away from him. "Hey," Joshua says then, and Vasquez turns to find bright green eyes staring back at him, the worry lurking in them frank and obvious.

Vasquez feels his throat work. Licking at distressingly dry lips, he draws himself up and meets Joshua's eyes as best he's able. "You're late," he chokes out, and god as his witness, it's the worst joke he's ever made.

Joshua doesn't smile, doesn't so much as crack a grin. Resting his hands on Vasquez's shoulders, he nods at someone else who's approaching, while his fingers stroke over the back of Vasquez's neck, clearly meaning to provide comfort.

"I know," he says wretchedly, at the same time Billy materializes at Vasquez's other side, a knife at the ready to begin cutting his arms free. "We got word a few days back that you'd been brought in. Barely slept the last couple nights trying to get here in time."

"Mmm," Vasquez murmurs, idly watching as Billy saws through the ropes at his wrists. He feels oddly detached somehow, like this is all a dream. "I suppose I should not complain about the timing."

"Fuck that," Joshua says harshly. A warm palm cups the side of Vasquez's face, and callused fingers stroke over his cheek. "You can tear a strip off each and every one of us, and rightfully so, as soon as we get you out of here."

Such a plan doesn't seem very fair to Vasquez, and he looks at Billy in confusion, wondering if maybe he might have some understanding of what Joshua's talking about.

"Leave it," Billy says, meeting Vasquez's eye as the last of the ropes snap free. "We can figure out who owes who what later. Right now we need to get out of here. Those men will only stay pinned down so long before someone gets brave and earns a look at our faces."

Vasquez supposes that makes sense, so he doesn't put up a fuss as they scramble down off the wooden plains of the gallows, heading for safety away from the sheriff's yard. They run into Sam and Jack along the way, the two of them rounding a corner wearing identical determined expression.

"The lord be praised," Jack says when he spots the three men moving towards him, and Sam makes a pleased noise as well.

"I see you got him then," he says, nodding at Vasquez. "Well, come on. We've dealt with enough trouble for one day. Let's not add to it by getting recognized and winding up with bounties on all our heads."

"You mean you do not want to end up like me?" Vasquez tries to joke, stumbling slightly as the sheer force of adrenaline he's running on starts to have strange effects on his body. "That hurts, amigo."

"Just keep movin'." Joshua's voice is sharp, containing none of its usual levity, and the hand he rests on Vasquez's shoulder to steady him clamps down almost hard enough to bruise.

His thoughts unsurprisingly all over the place, Vasquez doesn't know what to make of Joshua's behaviour. He thinks it's supposed to indicate concern, but can't honestly tell. As such, he simply keeps going, letting Joshua steer him where he chooses.

Goodnight's the next to appear, scrambling down off some sort of tower as they dart by. No doubt he'd squirrelled himself away up there for a decent vantage point, and Red materializes not long after that, his bow slung across his back and his face as somber as ever.

"It worked," he says, and heads nod among the circle they've formed, most of them protectively closed in around Vasquez. He'd consider protesting, but it's unexpectedly calming having his people bodily putting themselves between him and the rest of the world.

"How are we getting out?" He hears himself ask. His voice sounds a little off to his own ears, and it's possible he's not the only one because a hand - he's not sure who's - briefly trails along his spine in a way he suspects is meant to be comforting.

"The same way we got in," Sam tells him. "By melting into the shadows. We used the woods for cover, and that's what we're going to do again."

It's not the worst plan Vasquez has ever heard, certainly not on the same level as defending Rose Creek with a bunch of townsfolk who barely knew one end of a gun from the other, but it serves to show how rushed this rescue has been. Sam's oddly meticulous in his moves, as are a number of the others. If their plan had merely been to rush in guns blazing, they hadn't thought they had much time.

Which, he realizes as he feels the phantom touch of the rope around his neck, he supposes is a good thing.

The sheriff's station is located on the outskirts of town, a fact that had no doubt made sneaking in without being spotted easier than it might have been. They head for the relative safety of the trees, hoping that the inevitable pursuit won't happen until at least the lawmen can regroup and see to their wounded.

"Keep goin', keep goin'," Faraday prods, as they stumble through the brush. They're leaving an easy to follow trail, but right now distance is more important. Once they've got some of that they can focus on covering their tracks.

Eventually they emerge into a clearing containing their horses, including Vasquez's own.

"How did you -?" He starts to ask because she'd been with him when he was taken, but Faraday just shushes him as he climbs into Jack's saddle.

"Up, Vas," he says, apparently missing the fact that Vasquez is already following suit. "We can tell you everything later. For now let's *go*."

"I am," Vasquez grunts, not wanting to argue. He adjusts his grip on the reins and nudges his mare into motion, falling into step with the others as they head for the riverbank on the off chance it'll help through anyone who comes after them off the trail.

They ride far longer than they normally would, not stopping until the sun has set and going any further would pose a danger to the horses. The town is well at their backs, having faded from sight hours ago, and Vasquez breathes a shaky noise of relief as he dismounts.

"Goody, Billy, get a fire on," Sam says as he does the same. "Jack, if you wouldn't mind fetching water, Red and I can see to the horses. Faraday too if he's of a mind."

"I can -," Vasquez starts to say, only to stop when Sam shakes his head, barely visible thanks to the lack light.

"You can sit and relax," he says firmly. "You've had enough excitement for one day."

Vasquez wants to protest. He feels like the mindless task of settling the horses might actually make him feel better, but it's not to be. Even without Sam's orders, Joshua appears at his side, nudging him none too gently towards a fallen tree that will serve as a decent seat as the others make camp.

"You sit and don't move," Joshua declares, his voice stern. It puts Vasquez in mind of a scolding parent, something he would normally rebel against, but once he's down he finds he's too tired to get back up again. He supposes that's a sign sitting is indeed a good idea.

It doesn't take long for a camp to take shape around him, and soon the smell of supper reaches his nose. No one's bothered to go hunting, choosing instead to all stick close for once, but they luckily have more than enough supplies for a meal even without adding to it that way.

"Here," Goodnight says, offering him the first plate once it's ready. "You've got to be half starved at this point."

He's not wrong. Vasquez hadn't had much interest in the meal he'd been offered prior to being dragged from his cell, and there hadn't been time to stop and eat since the rescue. His stomach rumbling, he digs in without a second thought, noticing only belatedly that Joshua's settled down beside him with his own plate in hand.

"Make sure you eat it all," he rumbles, as if Vasquez has any intention of doing other than that. "Full belly'll help you feel better after a day like today."

Grunting his acknowledgement, Vasquez does just that, wolfing the food down without complaint, not really caring that it's hearty but lacking much of anything in flavour.

"Got some whiskey too, if you want that," Joshua offers as Vasquez's supper steadily disappears. "Ain't much since we couldn't rightly stop for a refill, but it's yours if you like."

Vasquez feels his eyebrows go up of their own accord, but he nevertheless takes the flask when Joshua holds it out. Knocking back a swig, he lets the alcohol sear its way down his throat, like the food and the open air reminding him that he's still alive.

"Thank you," he says, hoping Joshua, not to mention the others, can tell he doesn't mean just for the whiskey.

"Shut up and keep drinkin'," Joshua says, which is as good an indication as any that he's caught Vasquez unstated meaning. He never does well on the receiving end of gratitude, does Joshua. Back in Rose Creek he'd been all but climbing the walls to get away from the townsfolk and their repeated thanks.

A side effect of having food and drink in his stomach is that it gives way to the last of the adrenaline Vasquez has been running on since the escape. Listing to the side, he barely makes it to his bedroll before he collapses down on top of it, not far from where the fire is still crackling merrily away.

The others follow suit not long after, each of them assuming their usual sleeping patterns. That is - until Vasquez hears a thump behind him and tiredly looks over to find Joshua throwing down his gear not far away.

"What are you doing, guero?" He murmurs quietly. None of the others are paying them any attention, but that doesn't stop Vasquez from dropping his voice. Joshua's like Billy in that normally he prefers sleeping at a higher vantage point. He also dislikes being too close to the fire because it makes him overheat.

"Odds are good you won't sleep through the night," Joshua says curtly, surprising Vasquez with his frankness. "You're gonna want someone nearby when the nightmares wake you up."

"I am fine," Vasquez protests, but Joshua merely shakes his head, the stubborn set of his jaw more than enough to prove he's not going anywhere unless forced. Since he doesn't have the energy for that, Vasquez rolls back over and wills sleep to claim him.

He drops off while staring at the fire's dancing flames, but once his eyes are closed a different sight takes over.

It doesn't happen right away. At first his dreams are calm, peaceful. He doesn't know where he is, seems to just be wandering aimlessly, but he's content, not bothered by his surroundings.

Then the world shifts. Harsh barking laughter reaches his ears, and a rope tightens around his neck while a new voice describes in detail what's going to happen to him when the trapdoor springs. It tells him all about the hangings it's seen, and Vasquez comes awake abruptly, panting raggedly as his fingers scrabble over the skin the rope had rested on.

He panics momentarily when an arm wraps around his shoulders, pressing him against the solid bulk of another body. A hand reaches up to force his own away from his throat, and Vasquez slowly starts to clue in to what's happened.

"It looks like you were right about how I would sleep," he chokes out, hiding his face in Joshua's shirt because it's there and he can.

Joshua snorts, the exhalation such that Vasquez can feel it as his chest moves. "Ain't like I'm proud of it," he mutters, even as his arm tightens around Vasquez's back. "I just know what a near death experience can do to a man is all."

"Nah, none of that," he adds sharply. His free hand snaps out and grabs for where Vasquez's own hand had been inching up to touch his throat again. "That's only gonna make you feel worse. Don't do it."

"It was there," Vasquez hisses. "The rope. In my dream it was there."

"And the fuckin' gat was there in mine after Rose Creek," Joshua tells him. "And that damned owl as he likes to call it was in Goody's after the war. Chances are good you ask any man here and he'll have somethin' that's haunted him at some point. Don't give into it."

"I can't just curse at it and have it go away, guero," Vasquez points out. He jabs a finger meanly into Joshua's side when he scoffs. "Stop acting like you know so much of how I am feeling."

Joshua makes yet another scoffing sound, and then startles Vasquez by launching himself onto his back without his warning, his grip such that Vasquez has no choice but to go with him, landing sprawled over the other man's chest with his face mashed into his throat.

"Go to sleep," Joshua says firmly. "It'll be better if you do it like this."

Vasquez snorts, rearranging himself into a more comfortable position that nevertheless still sees him curled into Joshua's side. "You act like you know everything," he says in defiance of the way he's basically doing exactly as he's told. "You know nothing."

"Then put up an actual fight, y'stubborn bastard," Joshua suggests, and Vasquez just knows he's grinning smugly when he does no such thing. They both know he's content to lay here as they are. There's no need for Joshua to rub salt in the wound.

"I'm very tired," he says simply, not missing the way Joshua's arm tightens reflexively at his words.

"Then go back to sleep," he says softly, all his earlier fight trailing out of his words. "I've got you."

Vasquez had known that since the moment Joshua had pulled the noose from around his neck, but, he decides as he settles down and lets the steady heartbeat beneath his cheek start to lull him into a sense of security, he doesn't mind hearing it aloud. That's enough fighting out of him for one night. For now he'll take the offer of comfort, no matter how awkwardly presented, and rest like he should.


End file.
